Learn to Burn Fahrenheit 451
by xravenscroftx
Summary: Beatty never hated books as he wouldn't have quoted them otherwise , but he does burn them... Have you ever wondered what brought this about? Let's find out.... R&R please! Disclamer: I do not own Beatty or any works alluded to herein...


\/p>

**Learn To Burn**

"John!" his father spat, as though the name were the venom of some bitter snake. "Get the hell over here!"

Silence.

"If you don't get your nose out of that book, I swear, I'll-"

Raising his head from the yellowed pages for the first time in hours, the young Beatty questioned, "You'll what?"

"Excuse me?"

"Apparently the years have taken their toll on your hearing… I said, 'You'll what?'"

"I won't take your snide back talking." his father said with finality. "You won't put down the books! What good do they do you? The false worlds- how do they help? They don't exist! How could something NONEXISTANT possibly help you in reality?" The harsh words were like whips, lashing Beatty relentlessly with every sentence. 

"They're an escape! As Edward P. Morgan said, 'A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face. It is one of the few havens remaining where a man's mind can get both provocation and privacy.'"

"An escape! A haven!" he mocked. "HA! They offer temporary comfort- nothing that will possibly last! "

"You read once! How could you turn on the leather-bounds? The wise words these manuscripts contain?"

"I saw the light. It's that simple. I have been shown the right path, and that is what I shall do to you: force you on the right path."

At the word force, Beatty cringed. "I am on the right path!" He attempted to steady his voice, but it wavered like the branches of a palm in the wind.

"Scared, are we? You'll appreciate it." Again, his father's voice was like a whip and his eyes reflected the flames of Beatty's inner hell.

"What are you going to do?"

"I won't be doing anything. You will gather your books and bring them outside. Once there, you will douse them with kerosene and burn them. It's as easy as pie. Burning things is clean, easy, and efficient." Again his eyes seemed to dance with pleasure at his son's horror-stricken expression. "GO!"

Beatty scrambled out of his seated position as though he were on fire. Racing to his room like the #6 horse, Beatty grabbed a sack and began to throw books into it. In the background, he could hear his father still raving like a madman. His hand faltered over one of the books. He grabbed it, but rather than sending it to the gallows, he hid it under his pillow. Ensuring that the gilded "HOLY BIBLE" could not be read, Beatty continued to fill the death warrants. 

"Done yet!"

"Yes, sir." Beatty said with a heavy heart.

"Follow me."

The antonymous pair ventured to the front yard. "Grab one." The father ordered.

"One? Why not burn them all?"

"We will, don't worry." It was said with a sneer. "Just one at a time."

Reluctantly, Beatty drew a book out of the old sack: _An Essay on Criticism_ by Alexander Pope. He doused it with the kerosene his father so generously handed him and lit the match. He watched with despair and disgust at the crumbling, dying pages. At his father's insistence, he did the same to another. And another. And another. After ridding the world of several books, Beatty began to feel different- but not in a sense he wanted to acknowledge. As the flames licked the binding of _The Merchant of Venice_, he felt a strange pleasure. For once in his young life, he felt he had control over something: the irrepressible flames. He also enjoyed seeing the red book jacket altered by the blaze, turned into a completely different, mutilated substance. He reached into the bag and found the last book. He took great care with this one, embalming it with kerosene and gently laying it to rest on the pavement. Beatty vigilantly snapped the final match out of its paper book and struck it across the sandpaper backing. Bending down, he laid the match atop the cover. The inferno on the cement in front of him mirrored the one in his heart. Beatty was now both murderer and victim. Both the burning and the burnt were his drug. 

Standing there, above the charred remains of his love, he vowed to save others the pain of reading, knowing that if he didn't take action and slay the books, someone else- someone impassionate- would in the end. He would remain indifferent to his colleagues, but inside, he would bleed at every alarm. He knew he would be thought of as a hero to some. He knew he would be the villain to others. He knew that he would be guilty, his hands forever stained with the ink-blood of these works. He knew that he would always remember this day of endings and beginnings, of life and death. Beatty could only guess how the tables would turn.


End file.
